


Shadow Box

by WhoopsOK



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Cock & Ball Torture, Consensual Non-Consent, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Deepthroating, Drug Use, Face-Fucking, Gun Kink, Kinktober, Knifeplay, M/M, Masks, Masochism, Masochist Castiel (Supernatural), Multi, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:31:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: “Drink up,” he says and Castiel can’t help but think it sounds ominous, even as Sam stretches absently beside him.The beer tastes funny when Castiel sips it this time.He keeps drinking it anyway.(In which Castiel is visited by some old acquaintances and they give him a hard time.)Heed the tags.





	Shadow Box

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pretty Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5364464) by [WhoopsOK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK). 



> Oct 1st: Masks & Deepthroating
> 
> This is a little long since it’s sort of a sequel to Pretty Wings, but you don’t really have to read that to follow along. Only note is that “Order a pizza” was their code to let Castiel know they’re about to do something bad to him unless he says no. …This has a lot more bad than I meant for it to, but well, you saw the tags and clicked for a reason, doll.
> 
> Meaning: this is consensual non-consent that specifically involves Castiel being given sedatives/paralytics. If that would in any way trigger or upset you, skip this one. I want you to have a good time.

Castiel doesn’t really understand the purpose of this ritual, not when he can’t get drunk on anything less than _all_ the liquor here, but he’s willing to play along.

Dean is at home in dive bars in a way that’s beautiful to watch, the ease of his banter with complete strangers, the calculated way he fumbles with his pool cue on his first match. Sam had told him not to hustle tonight, but Sam is also at home in bars in a way that eases his shoulders, just as beautiful as his brother. The way he’s nursing his beer is a show and, though others are watching it, Castiel has a front row seat and most of Sam’s attention.

When Dean calls out for him, it takes Castiel a moment to break away from the promise in Sam’s eyes, but he comes when beckoned. It’s only five minutes of attempting to teach Castiel the basics of pool before Dean pats his shoulder good naturedly and promises to train him better “ _before I let these vultures get ahold of you. Yeah, you all are!! Cas, why don’t you order a pizza for us when we get back? No, not for you assholes!_ ”

The other men around the pool table are laughing, but Castiel’s heart is suddenly pounding, a sinking feeling and a glowing warmth taking him over all at once. Dean is laughing, but he’s not laughing with the crowd; that sharp smirk is all for Castiel.

Nodding slightly, his heart somewhere in his throat, Castiel turns to go back to Sam to find him still staring, not at all subtly, as he slides Castiel a fresh beer.

“Drink up,” he says and Castiel can’t help but think it sounds ominous, even as Sam stretches absently beside him.

The beer tastes funny when Castiel sips it this time.

He keeps drinking it anyway.

//

It’s a hot splatter that wakes Castiel up. Or, at least that’s what he figures.

The world is sort of murky and nondescript, like his mind is desperately trying to pay attention, but five senses are too many to navigate all at once. Even once he manages to pry his eyes open, his vision is swimming. The stuffy feeling in his head means that the fear doesn’t start filtering in properly until he realizes he can barely feel his body. Everything feels like television snow except for the hot splatter on his shoulders, rolling in a slow, tickling path before congealing, warm and tight on his skin. It’s cold – _is it? he thinks so_ – so the drip feels almost scalding _._ Panic flares up sharp and bright when he realizes he doesn’t remember leaving the bar, much less know where he is _now_.

“It’s awake,” a voice sings and Castiel’s blood runs cold. He tries to turn and look, but even his eyes are a little sluggish to track the boots that walk into view in front of his face. The goblin mask, however, is familiar when the creature squats down, a white candlestick burning in it’s hand.

“Long time no see, angel,” the Goblin says sweetly, tipping the candle onto Castiel’s back, the flinch that wanted to escape smothered to less than a gasp. “Miss us?”

Castiel goes to scream, but nothing more than a garbled groan escapes him, even when motivated by a boot shoving him onto his back. The blank, blood-spattered mask that haunts his _best_ worst nightmares is staring down at him. “Scream all you want,” it says, letting it’s own candle drip on Castiel’s heaving chest, “Nobody is out here to hear you when you stop pretending you don’t want it.”

The Goblin cackles, smashing it’s candle into the hard dirt before kneeling over Castiel’s chest. “You did a lot of squirming last time, so we fixed you up real nice,” it says, grabbing his face and shaking it side to side. “You know how hard it was to find something strong enough to drug an angel?”

“We’re still tying him up,” the Mask comments, walking behind Castiel’s head.

Castiel groans when the Goblin sits up suddenly, sitting his weight on Castiel’s stomach. “Dude, come on! I’m already jonesing to—”

“Get punched in the face?” the Mask comes back into view, a length of black rope in it’s hand. “I’ll do it however you want, but I’m not getting a black eye when it starts flailing.”

At the very insinuation, Castiel can’t help but try to swing out, but his arm barely twitches, sliding less than a centimeter towards the Goblin’s leg when he’d been aiming to hit him in the face. His efforts still get him slapped so hard his ears ring, the taste of blood filling his mouth when he gets hit round the other cheek as well, almost like an afterthought. He can’t help the wheezing sob that tries to escape him.

“See?” the Mask says.

“Shut up,” the Goblin snaps, slapping Castiel again before reaching down and smutching the blood seeping from Castiel’s mouth across his cheek. “It’s pretty when it’s all pink and red.”

“I’d rather fuck it pink and red,” the Mask comments blithely and Castiel hates the little thrill of arousal that shoots through his gut at that. “Hold it still.”

The Goblin shifts them again so its knee and a good bit of its weight are resting across Castiel’s back as it takes his arms and folds them together. The feeling of the rope dragging against his skin is only muted for the first few passes before it turns into a continual burning across the entirety of his forearm that has him trying to squirm, tears prickling his eyes as he finds himself unable to move. His cheek scrapes the dirt when he’s levered up enough to get the rope around his chest.

The Mask drops him when it finishes. “Get him on the table, I want him rigged.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the Goblin grumbles. He stands, dragging Castiel up by the upper arm, leaving him to limply dangle half off the ground. Before he can even attempt to coordinate his deadened legs to move, he’s lifted carelessly over the Goblin’s shoulder, his head flopping against its back. “I want its mouth this time, though.”

“ _Yeah, yeah,_ ” the Mask mocks, “I’ll let its head dangle.”

That sounds _horrifying,_ but Castiel doesn’t have a clue what it means until his back hits a short wooden table, pinning his bound arms under his weight. The sudden change in direction makes his vision swirl as much as the sharp pain of wood and rope burn. Overhead, the patchy ceiling lets in flickers of moonlight, casting the butcher’s hooks dangling from the ceiling in menacing shadows. The light is cut off by the Mask leaning over him, vacant and disturbing in the semi darkness.

“Much as it’d be interesting to gut an angel, you’re in luck,” the Mask muses, threading the rope through one of the hooks before getting to work on Castiel’s legs. “I just want to fuck you raw, I don’t want to get blood on my shirt.”

“I do,” the Goblin says and Castiel catches a glint of metal flash in the corner of his vision. He breaks out in a cold sweat, watching the Goblin twirl an angel blade around it’s hand _._ “It’s so much prettier when it’s bleeding, man, I want it _dripping_.”

“Don’t make it pass out,” the Mask sighs and Castiel looks down to see one of his calves disappearing into a thick banding of ropes. It doesn’t have eyes, but Castiel can _feel_ it looking up to catch his gaze. “I want it to remember everything it’s getting off on.”

The Goblin laughs again and Castiel feels his lungs clench with the urge to cry out, succeeding in nothing more than a whimper when it taps the flat of the knife against his budding arousal. “Oh, don’t worry,” it assures its partner, “Shallow cuts do plenty.”

This is a fact Castiel has learned intimately and whines at the thought of learning again. His “ _please no_ ” comes out as distorted nonsense. He tries to kick out, but the Mask starts pulling him up by his bound leg and he loses all his semblance of balance again. Even without being all the way off the table, half his weight hanging from one calf leaves the rope digging into his skin and it _hurts so much worse than his arms._ The Mask catches his next twitching attempt at a kick seemingly without concern even if he reaches down to grip Castiel’s balls so hard he starts to feel sick.

“You don’t know when to quit,” Mask growls, folding Castiel’s leg and getting started on more rope work.

“Sure doesn’t,” Goblin comments, then it’s hand closes around Castiel’s throat, the restricted blood flow further scrambling his already panic-hazy mind.

Leaning over him, cutting off his airway, knife in hand, the Goblin consumes all his thoughts. He moves quickly enough that there’s no room to mentally brace for it, no swirling anticipation; the burn of tearing skin instantly cuts through the haze of numbness in Castiel’s body. He struggles to draw enough breath to scream, can’t manage it. His lips start to tingle but he can’t focus past the tugging and tearing of his skin, tracing the tight rope around his chest before glancing alarmingly close to his nipples. His vision starts to dim and he feels panic take over, tears pouring from his eyes. The knife is creeping closer and closer to Castiel’s crotch and he can’t even muster the motion to twitch away.

“What did I say about making it pass out?” the Mask snaps and suddenly the ropes around Castiel’s legs tighten and his hips are lifted completely off the table. The blood rush that causes combined with the sharp pain of the ropes digging into his skin sends the room spinning; it leaves blacking out scarily close, but tantalizingly far away. His blood trickles up his chest and around the Goblin’s hand on his throat for a moment before it finally stops choking him. Castiel coughs, heaving for breath.

“Fuck off, it’s breathing, see?” The Goblin shoots back, “Are you done or what?”

“Wait,” the Mask says, reaching for the ropes on Castiel’s chest. Castiel flinches away from the sting, gets fingers dug into his cuts for his trouble. His sense of his own body has come back enough for him to wail unrestricted. “Be fucking still or I’ll make it worse.”

“ _P’ea—_ ” Castiel keens, but can’t shape his mouth properly to form all of ‘ _please_ ’ quite yet. He can’t think past the pain of rope dragging over his freshly torn skin, screaming and trying not the thrash less the Mask make good on his promise.

“Noisy fucker,” the Goblin laughs, sticking bloodied fingers into Castiel’s mouth. It crosses Castiel’s mind to bite him, but then there’s a blade at his throat and he just sobs around the intrusion. “I think it likes it.”

The Mask just grunts and Castiel sags against the table when it stops pulling the rope. “Done.”

“Fucking finally,” the Goblin replies and Castiel has a moment of confused relief and fear when suddenly they both stop touching him. He pries open his eyes, not even realizing he’d close them, just in time to see the Goblin kick out, snapping the rickety leg of the table.

Castiel lets out a sharp cry that ends on a drawn out groan as he’s left dangling above the wreckage, the majority of his weight borne on his one leg, the other ropes barely keeping him horizontal. He shifts back and forth, unable to stop whining even as his body settles into the pain like it’s never known anything else. He lets out a high and embarrassed sound because it’s—the pain is—

The Mask’s hand closes around is arousal, just this side of too tight and Castiel jerks, rocking in the ropes and chains above him. He’s only half hard, too woozy and numb to manage much more, but the Mask tugging him roughly sends pleasure zinging through him. His head falls back, mouth open as he groans and finally manages, “ _Please._ ”

“His _mouth,_ ” the Goblin growls.

The Mask pushes at his shoulder. “Yours.”

Castiel knows how much danger he’s in, he doesn’t need any additional warnings. Still, when the Mask reaches into its waistband and pulls out a pistol, he tries to shy away when it’s pressed to his temple. “I— _ah!_ ” he cuts off when his hair is tugged sharply, the warm metal of the barrel moving down to rest against his aching cock.

The Mask’s voice is dark and rough when he leans down to speak against Castiel’s ear, “Keep your teeth to yourself and I’ll let you keep your dick, understand?”

There’s no time for Castiel to even beg before the Goblin is there, giving Castiel only the briefest glance of it’s hard cock before it’s shoved into his mouth. Castiel chokes before he can help himself, unused to giving head _upside-down._ Gagging around the intrusion, Castiel convulses involuntarily when he finds he can’t draw any breath. His startled cry smothered by the arousal stealing his breath—his own and the Goblin’s—leaving him thrashing in his bindings, unable to do more than give himself rope burn.

The Goblin groans putting its hand on Castiel’s throat to feel him struggling, feel its cock bulging his throat. “Fuckin’ shit, it’s so good…” it breathes, turning to its companion. “You lucky bastard, you got it so good last time, didn’t you?”

The Mask hums faintly, but Castiel can’t see what it’s doing with his head trapped between the Goblin’s thighs. The feeling of the Mask’s fingers dragging through the drool and tears on his cheek is secondary to everything else he’s feeling, but still has the effect of making his already frayed nerves flinch. He whimpers when the Mask forces its finger in beside the Goblin’s dick before tracing around his stretched lips. The Goblin removes its hand only for the Mask’s seemingly larger hand to close over Castiel’s throat instead.

“It looked so scared,” the Mask says and _squeezes._

And Castiel is leaking all over his own stomach, probably all over the gun, too. The thought shouldn’t arouse him, but he feels his eyes rolling back as he gags rhythmically. His hips twitch, and not just with the urge to free himself.

“Look at it, tryna fuck on your gun, it wants it so bad. Probably fell outta heaven ‘cause of its whore _mouth_ , fucking gagging for cock, weren’t you?” The Goblin babbles grinding itself into Castiel’s throat, grabbing the ropes on his chest to drag him closer. It shudders with an unsteady breath when that makes Castiel try to scream around his cock as his wounds are aggravated. “It sounds so goddamn—ha, _goddamned_ ,” his voice going tight, “We corrupted him, he’s only ours now, not Heaven’s. Just a lowlife slut, just for us.”

The words shouldn’t mean anything, or maybe they should hurt, but Castiel can’t find it in himself to feel badly for the comments. Most of it hits him like heat, boiling up in his stomach, unfettered _desire_. He whimpers, truly, when he recognizes most of what he’s feeling is relief.

Marked by these monsters, Heaven can’t steal him back, he’s theirs, they’re going to fuck him until that’s all he ever is or was, just a body to be abused until the pain feels like _flying_ , just a hole for monsters to—

“Come down its throat,” the Mask says suddenly, _desperately_. It sounds like begging, like it can’t think of a single thing more it wants in that moment. Castiel can’t either. “I want—De— _Come down its throat, make it swallow you._ ”

“You bossy fuck—” The Goblin snarls back tightly, but then—pressing in as deep as it can get, mashing its balls on Castiel’s face—it does just that. “ _Oh, oh,_ ” it grunts as it spills down Castiel’s throat, holding tight even as Castiel’s noises take on a frantic quality.

When it finally pulls out, the unrestricted oxygen hits Castiel’s brain like a high. He coughs wetly, gasping for breath, feeling dizzy and out of himself. He can’t help the way his body jolts and twitches, can’t control the spasming in his chest, but he isn’t fighting anymore, he doesn’t want to. He sags, lets the ropes take his weight and waits to be used again. Face slick with all manner of fluids, maybe even smudged with his own blood, Castiel lets his mouth hang open.

“Oh fuck, oh, give it to him,” the Goblin begs, pushing frantically at the Mask. It takes the gun and Castiel gives a weak, gravelly little noise of the loss of the only thing close to getting him off. But the Goblin’s frantic hand is going for the Mask’s pants, getting in the way more than helping, and suddenly, one more cock is all Castiel needs, his own arousal falling aside with the desire to—to be _complete, completely taken._

“Please,” he slurs. His own voice surprises him because, even raspy and tongue-tired, he can hear his own desperation. He sounds distantly close to tears, if they deny him this, he will cry. He may cry even if he gets it. “ _Please._ ”

“Fuck,” the Mask says quietly. Leaving its pants to its companion, it reaches for Castiel’s face, presses its fingers against Castiel’s tongue. “ _Fuck._ ”

The Goblin yanks its pants open, forcing them down past his arousal. “Yeah, that’s the idea, fuckin’ do it, man,” it says, guiding the Mask into Castiel’s wanting mouth.

The Mask’s cock fills him out even more than the Goblin’s had, thick and a longer press into his throat. He stays slack and lets it. For a half beat that’s all there is, before suddenly the Mask is slamming in like he wants to fuck all the way through Castiel. It hurts, Castiel feels every single thrust shudder its way through his whole body and loses himself to the feeling. He’s so grounded in his body, the feeling of the ropes, the cuts, the drying blood, the drool and snot on his face, the cock abusing his airway, he’s nothing beyond this, beyond this exact moment right here. If he’s meant for nothing but pleasure, of course, he should feel it, too. He doesn’t want this to end.

“He can’t even suck it anymore,” the Mask pants, and Castiel _can’t_. He’s too focused on sucking in tiny little breaths between strokes to coordinate anything else. The world starts going fuzzy in regards to anything besides his burning lungs and the Mask pressing its arousal in and out of his throat. “You’re gonna swallow it all, you’re gonna take me down, too.”

Yes, Castiel agrees silently.

The Mask’s hips lose their rhythm. “You belong to us, you deserve to be filled up with our come. _That’s_ what you’re good for.”

_Yes,_ Castiel agrees again, but sobs this time and the Mask mutters a string of curses, curling its fingers around Castiel’s chin as its cock pulses, flooding Castiel’s throat with its come.

The moment Castiel can breathe freely again, he finds himself sobbing with something he can’t name. He hurts everywhere—it’s wonderful—he so turned on it hurts—and he can’t do a thing about it—and it’s exactly where he should be, right here, where they’ve put him.

“Done with it?” he hears the Mask ask, almost passing for absently.

“Yeah,” the Goblin replies faintly. “Yeah, let’s—let’s get out of here.”

They’re walking away and suddenly that’s horrendously unacceptable. It’s all a game, in the back of his mind, Castiel knows this; they aren’t going anywhere, not really, they would never. But the illusion falls apart as they get further away from him, because _no, his heart doesn’t care that it’s a game, he doesn’t want to be alone._ They can’t leave him, whichever version of themselves they are, he’s _theirs_ and they can’t leave without him, even for pretend, not tonight, _he’s theirs._ He’s changing the rules _right fucking now_. They won, they’ve _won_ , he’ll beg, they’ve broken him.

“ _No!_ ” Castiel cries loudly, voice shredded and thick with tears. “No, please don’t—don’t leave me, _I’m yours, I’m—_ ” his own sobs get in the way of his words and he can’t focus enough to string together a sentence. “ _Dean! Dean, Sam, please, please—!!_ ”

“Hey, shh, shh, we’re here,” Dean coos at him, appearing at his side. Castiel wants to shift towards his voice, but the motion just sends him rocking unsteadily before Dean catches him. “It’s ok, honey, I got you.”

Sam’s hand brushes across his sweaty forehead, one hand cradling the back of his head so Castiel doesn’t have to strain to see them. “It’s all over, Cas, it’s over,” he turns to Dean, “Hold him up.”

Castiel snivels as Dean gets his arms under him, taking his weight, the blood flow to his leg suddenly unrestricted and tingling. “ _Oh,_ ” he says when the rope is cut completely, Sam lowering his leg gently onto Dean’s arm.

“Easy, let me get you out of this,” Sam says and Castiel can’t open his eyes to look, but he can hear a pair of shears cutting the ropes from his body, most of them dropping to the floor. “You’re ok, baby.”

And Castiel knows that, that’s partly why he can’t stop crying. It’s good, it’s all so good, always so good. He lets his head sag against Dean’s chest and lets them have him; he’s theirs, they’ll take care of him.

“You were so beautiful,” Sam says when Castiel is finally free and they’re walking him out. He blinks, the moonlight brighter even through the trees. He has no clue where they our, can’t care about anything beyond Dean’s arms and Sam’s voice. “Our beautiful angel, you’re right, you’re all ours. We’re gonna take care of you now, we’re going home.”

Castiel shudders. “Please.”

Navigating getting into the car takes a little bit of effort, with Castiel unwilling to let go of them for any length of time, but they manage. The three of them pressed close together in the front seat, Castiel cradled carefully between them—Dean supporting his back and his legs resting over Sam’s lap. With the doors closed, shut off from the rest of the world, Castiel feels himself slipping low and spacey. The pain was a good place to get lost, but this, the pain combined with relief and love? He never wants to find his way out of this warm darkness.

Still, he sucks in a breath, writhing when Dean’s hand trails down the drying blood on his chest; not fighting it, not trying to make it stop, just because it _feels_. Dean’s hand pauses only for a moment before continuing back up, using his nails this time along the barely healing wounds. A loud groan punches out of Castiel’s chest, ending on staccato little breaths as his body arches into the sensation.

Dean chuckles. “Ain’t you something?” he mutters, flicking a finger over Castiel’s nipple.

“I’m gonna help you out, ok?” Sam says sweetly and before Castiel can collect himself to ask, Sam’s hand trails tenderly up his thigh to his cock. His face goes brazenly hungry when Castiel whines, hips lifting towards his hand. “Can I, Cas?”

Castiel chokes out a sob against Dean’s shirt, reaching down to clutch Sam’s arm. “ _Yes, yes, yes—_ ”

“Ok, Sammy’s got you,” Dean says, kissing him, swallowing his whimpers as soon as they escape. “Let him take care of you.”

It’s an order and such an easy one to follow. Castiel couldn’t muster up a fight even if he wanted to, but between the stinging all over his skin and Dean kissing him and his sore muscles and Sam stroking him just the way he likes while whispering, “ _Our pretty angel, so good for us_ ” like he’s in love, Castiel doesn’t want to fight back. He lets them hold him, trembling between them, mouth open wide as Dean bites at his jaw, and comes over Sam’s fist.

“Good, honey, that’s _beautiful,_ ” Castiel hears Dean whisper, but then his heart is thundering too loud in his ears to make out anything else.

There’s some shifting and Castiel is wrapped in something soft, resting comfortably when he comes back to himself. The roar of the Impala’s engine calling him back out of his body, the familiar sound of the best days of his life. Blinking blearily, Castiel finds himself safe in Sam’s lap, curled in his arms as Dean drives. One hand on the steering wheel, the other holding Castiel’s outstretched ankle, his fingers resting lightly over the rope indentions there.

Glancing over, Dean smiles at him warmly. “No more surprises. We’re going home, Cas,” he promises, gaze turning back to the road. “You’re safe, now.”

“I know,” Castiel replies, which is as much an “ _I love you_ ” between them as the words themselves. Still, he clears his throat and adds on a verbal, “I love you.”

He sighs when Sam kisses his temple as Dean replies, “We love you, too, Cas.”

“Get some rest,” Sam whispers against his skin and that’s an order he can’t be bothered to fight either.

Using what little energy and motor control he has left, Castiel droops so his face is tucked against Sam’s neck and goes to sleep, safe as can be.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading…the weather is changing, don’t forget to take a sweater!
> 
> (Unsexy reminders: Of course, the idea is that Sam and Dean aren’t going to actually do this, but at any rate, don’t leave anyone alone if they’re suspended… Also, gentle suggestion not to suspend anyone without taking a rigging class or something. There’s a lot of ways to hurt someone if you’re not careful.)


End file.
